“Dr. Isles,” a reporter called out, “are you here to make a diagnosis?”

“Why is the ME’s office involved?” another asked.

That last question needed an immediate answer, before the issue got twisted by the press.

Maura said, firmly: “The medical examiner’s office is not involved. It’s certainly not paying me to be here tonight.”

“But you are here,” said Channel 5’s blond hunk, whom Maura had never liked.

“At the invitation of the Crispin Museum. Dr. Robinson thought it might be helpful to have a medical examiner’s perspective on this case. So he called me last week to ask if I wanted to observe the scan. Believe me, any pathologist would jump at this chance. I’m as fascinated by Madam X as you are, and I can’t wait to meet her.” She looked pointedly at the curator. “Isn’t it about time to begin, Dr. Robinson?”

She’d just tossed him an escape line, and he grabbed it. “Yes. Yes, it’s time. If you’ll come with me, Dr. Isles.”

She cut through the crowd and followed him into the Imaging Department. As the door closed behind them, shutting them off from the press, Robinson blew out a long sigh.

“God, I’m terrible at public speaking,” he said. “Thank you for ending that ordeal.”

“I’ve had practice. Way too much of it.”

They shook hands, and he said: “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Isles. Mr. Crispin wanted to meet you as well, but he had hip surgery a few months ago and he still can’t stand for long periods of time. He asked me to say hello.”

“When you invited me, you didn’t warn me I’d have to walk through that mob.”

“The press?” Robinson gave a pained look. “They’re a necessary evil.”

“Necessary for whom?”

“Our survival as a museum. Since the article about Madam X, our ticket sales have gone through the roof. And we haven’t even put her on display yet.”

Robinson led her into a warren of hallways. On this Sunday night, the Diagnostic Imaging Department was quiet and the rooms they passed were dark and empty.